Folie a Deux
by allthingsdecent
Summary: After Wilson's death, House gets arrested and Cuddy is forced to testify at his trial.
1. Chapter 1

"_Hellooooooo? Anyone there? Pick up, pick up, pick up. . . Remember me? Tall, devastatingly handsome fellow, walks with a limp? I guess you might be able to tell that I'm a little drunk right now. Ha. Okay, A LOT drunk. But I just wanted to call to say…I miss you. Yeah …that's what I wanted to say. . . I guess maybe you're sleeping now because it's. . .holy shit, it's 3 a.m! Sorry. I didn't mean to call so late. Just wanted you to know that I was thinking about you. Actually, I'm always thinking about you. . .So, um, maybe one day you'll, um, call me back? Okay, well…yeah. Bye."_

So she had shown up after all.

House was lurking in the trees, watching the funeral of his best friend from a safe distance.

He was wearing a heathered grey sweatshirt with the hood up, but it was hardly necessary. People were focusing on their grief, on the rabbi's words, on each other. They weren't going to notice a shadowy figure hiding in the trees 80 feet away.

House watched the mourners file toward the grave—that slow shuffling walk of people at funerals, as if moving briskly were somehow an affront to the dead.

He saw Wilson's parents, all of his ex wives, several former patients, plus a veritable who's who of Princeton Plainsboro—from the chairman of the board right down to Lou the janitor.

Wilson was well loved.

And then she was there.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw her. She was dressed in a dark trench coat, buttoned all the way up, and her eyes were covered in dark, Jackie O-style sunglasses.

She looked glamorous in that Lisa Cuddy way, like a movie star who had decided to grace the mere mortals of the funeral with her presence.

She was with Rachel, which surprised him a bit.

It had been two years since House had seen Rachel and he was struck, sadly, by the fact that she was no longer a toddler. She'd lost that plumpness in her face—she was a tiny beanpole in a dark dress. Her hair was longer, almost to her shoulders, but still in bangs. And she was pretty. He was relieved over that fact. Adoption was a tricky thing. It would suck to have a beautiful mother if you weren't beautiful yourself.

He chastised himself for having a pang of jealousy: _Cuddy showed up to Wilson's funeral but not to mine._

It was ridiculous.

But in a way, Wilson and House had always played the "who does Cuddy love more?" game.

House had won the game, definitively, for a while. ("You lucky, undeserving bastard," Wilson would sometimes joke, shaking his head, when House would boast about their sex life.) In the end, though, House was the big loser of the Cuddy sweepstakes. She had come to Wilson's funeral, but not to his.

She looked sad. So did Rachel. They both had their heads bowed. Cuddy whispered something in Rachel's ear, squeezed her daughter's hand.

He had a pang, fleetingly, of another life, some alternative dimension where _he_ could be the one standing by Cuddy's side, he could be the one holding Rachel's hand, being strong for them both.

But that wasn't his reality. His reality was he was a creepy dead guy hiding a bush.

#####

He'd only been able to make out snippets of the service but he knew, intuitively, it had been all wrong.

None of these people really got Wilson like he did. They only saw the obvious things—how nice and good-hearted and decent a fellow he was.

They didn't know that Wilson was the kind of guy who could abandon everyone who loved him, run off with his best friend for one last kick-ass hurrah.

("That Wilson. Always thinking of others," was the murmured explanation for Wilson's 6 month disappearance. "He didn't want us to see him get sick.")

In the end, Wilson and House did have a good adventure—lots of late night card games and booze binges and troublemaking.

It was a good time until Wilson got too sick to enjoy it.

It was a good time until it wasn't—a lot like life itself.

####

"_Have I apologized enough? I feel like I apologized enough. But maybe I haven't? Maybe the next apology is one that does the trick. So here it comes: I'm sorry Cuddy. I'm sorry I fucked up. I fucked up so bad. I hurt you. I hurt Rachel. I hurt myself….but no one cares about that. And I'm so sorry. I've replayed that night a million times in my head. What if I hadn't taken so many pills? What if I'd forgotten to look for the damn brush? What if I had just. . . driven away? What if, what if, what if. . .Single worst phrase in the English language."_

The service ended and everyone got into hearses and cars and House had a sickening thought that he might never see her again. He tried to memorize everything about her—the way she walked, the way her eyes danced when she smiled, the way she would idly tuck a strand of hair behind her ear when she was listening to someone.

She had no ring on her finger, which meant nothing, of course, but still gave him some small measure of satisfaction, some stupid, pointless hope.

He thought maybe if he stared long enough, she might feel his gaze, sense him.

But she never looked his way.

He watched her deftly strap Rachel into her carseat and drive off.

Her rental car got smaller and smaller until it was gone.

The pit that had permanently lodged itself in his stomach when Wilson died grew deeper.

This time, he was really alone.

#####

House waited until it got dark. Then he walked up to his friend's grave.

"I'm never going to forgive you for dying on me, you selfish bastard," he said outloud.

He smiled for a second.

"But it was good right? We had fun… Butch and Sundance have nothing on us . . . I'm just trying to figure out who will play us in the movie. I'm obviously Harrison Ford. And for you. . . is Tony Randall still alive?"

For some reason, giving Wilson shit, even now that he was dead, was comforting to House.

There was suddenly the sound of approaching footsteps, of grass crunching under shoes.

"Drop the cane and slowly put your hands above your head, Dr. House," a deep male voice said.

_Oh shit. _

He dropped his cane—it made a cane-shaped indentation in the thick grass. He raised his hands.

"Now turn around," the voice said.

House turned. Two cops, their guns drawn.

"Whoa," House said. "I didn't realize mourning the dead was a crime in New Jersey."

"Hold your arms out," the cop said.

House obeyed and the other cop frisked him. He pulled a copy of Moby Dick—Wilson's favorite book—out of House's back pocket.

"I was thinking of bringing a weapon," House said. "But Wilson's favorite book seemed more appropriate."

"He's clean," the cop said.

"Can I have my book back now?" House said.

"No, we'll hang onto it for you, Dr. House. Maybe you can read it in jail."

"And why do you keep calling me Dr. House? The name's John Holmes. You can check my ID, if you want."

"Save it House," the cop said. "We know who you are. We've been tracking you for several weeks now. Coming to Wilson's funeral was an amateur move."

House rolled his eyes a bit. But there was no point in denying anymore.

"If my arms weren't spread eagle, I'd give you a round of applause," he said.

The cop approached House and roughly pulled his arms down, then twisted them behind his back, strapped him in handcuffs.

"You're under arrest Dr. House—for parole violation, falsifying documents, faking your own death, and all sorts of other criminal mischief that I'm sure the State of New Jersey will happily pin on you."

"Like a corsage?" House said.

"Like a rap sheet as long as your arm."

"Oooh, fancy cop talk."

"Get in the car, House."

"I can't walk without my cane."

"But you're dead, right?" the cop said, with a laugh. "A ghost. You don't walk, you float."

And he pushed House toward the cop car. House stumbled, almost fell, and limped painfully alongside him.

They shoved him into the backseat and took off.

######

"_Hey Cuddy. Yeah… me again. I know you have no plans on ever speaking to me again. You've made that perfectly clear. But I thought you might want to know that Wilson is dying. Yeah, that's right. He's got cancer. Ironic, huh? And he's refusing treatment. And I'm feeling pretty alone right now… I could really use a friend. Not just any friend, you. Because I don't know what to do with myself, Cuddy. . .Oh crap. I gotta go. They're saying it's last call. . ."_

House was a deemed a flight risk, so he had to stay in jail.

He hated jail the last time and didn't like it any more now.

But at least now he knew the rules—befriend an alpha male, keep your head down, make yourself useful, and when in doubt, shut the fuck up.

House hired an attorney named Gus McElroy, a slimy, fast-talking guy in a custom-tailored suit who House immediately hated. But they said he was the best—and House definitely needed the best.

Gus tried to strike a deal—pointing out the extenuating circumstances of Wilson's illness, the tender way that House had cared for his dying friend until the bitter end.

The court was unmoved.

Six weeks after his arrest, House's trial was underway. If found guilty on all accounts, he'd be sentenced to 10 years in jail.

The prosecutor, Phil Ross, a skinny guy in his mid-50s with a thick head of gray hair and a strong Jersey accent—a street fighter type—tried to depict House as a megalomaniac, a pill-popping addict and jerk who thought he was above the rules of polite society.

And on the fourth day of the trial, the prosecution called a witness:

Dr. Lisa Cuddy.

######

House wasn't shocked. He'd known she was coming. The prosecution was required to submit a list of witnesses to the defense.

Still, seeing her so close, in a form-fitting business suit, smoothing her skirt before she sat on the witness stand, turning heads as she always did with her poise and beauty—he was having a hard time regulating his breathing. He felt his face grow hot.

She didn't look at him. (He was pretty sure she had been instructed not to look at him.)

They swore her in.

"State your name for the jury," Ross said.

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy."

"And what is your occupation, Dr. Cuddy?"

"I'm the Director of Medicine at Scarsdale General."

"And what is your relationship with the defendant, Gregory House?

She took a sip of water from the glass on the witness stand.

House noticed that her hands were shaking, just the tiniest bit.

Ross must've noticed, too.

"Take your time Dr. Cuddy," he said. "I know it must be a tremendous shock to see Gregory House alive."

"It is," she said, still not looking at him.

"So we'll take it slowly, okay?" he said, smiling an oily lawyer's smile.

"Okay," she said.

"Tell us about your relationship with Gregory House?"

Ross was pointedly not calling House doctor. Doctor was a sign of respect.

"We were classmates in med school, then I hired him to run the diagnostics department at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, where he worked for me for 12 years."

"And?"

"And. . . " she looked down. "We dated for a year."

"How did your relationship end?"

"Umm, badly." She gave an ironic little laugh.

"Can you be more specific?"

"We broke up and Hou—Dr. House—well, I guess you could say, he didn't take it very well."

"You ended it, right?" Ross said.

"That's right."

"May I ask why?"

Cuddy looked at her hands.

"No one reason," she said. "It was no one's fault. We both tried really hard. It just. . . didn't work out."

"But after you broke up, didn't he, in fact, drive his car into your dining room in a fit of jealous rage?"

"Objection!" McElroy said. "Dr. House is not being re-tried for that crime. There is no double jeopardy in the state of New Jersey."

"Just trying to establish a pattern of behavior," Ross said, with a "who me?" shrug.

"I'll allow it," said the judge, a 50ish woman with white hair. She seemed stern in the courtroom, but she had kind eyes.

"I repeat the question: Did Gregory House drive his car into your house because he saw you with another man?"

Cuddy hesitated, bit her lip.

"Yes, he did."

"Was this a pattern of behavior with House?"

"Driving his car into my house?" Cuddy said. "Most definitely not."

"I mean violence. Erratic behavior."

Cuddy slowly shook her head.

"No, I wouldn't say that."

Ross looked down at his notes.

"In the original trial, on June 12, 2011, didn't you say, and I quote: 'I always knew he was capable of something like this'?"

"I don't remember saying that."

"It's right here, in the transcripts. Do you want to see it?"

"No, I believe you," Cuddy said.

"So why would you say such a thing?"

"I was rather angry with Dr. House at the time."

"But you didn't just say you were angry. You said _I always knew he was capable of something like this_. Why?"

Cuddy looked at the judge, almost pleadingly, hoping to be let off the hook.

"Answer the question, Dr. Cuddy," she prodded.

"I guess because of the drugs."

"_Drugs?_"

"Dr. House had a medical trauma—something called an infarction—that leaves him in permanent pain. He takes vicodin to relieve his symptoms."

"Vicodin. . . that's an opiate, right? Nasty stuff. Highly addictive."

"It's a very effective pain medication when used properly."

"But House doesn't use it properly, does he?"

"Um…"

"He's an addict, right?" Ross probed.

"Yes," Cuddy said softly.

"And as addict, is safe to say that his behavior is very erratic?"

"Dr. House is a high-functioning addict," Cuddy said.

Phil Ross seemed slightly miffed. Whose side was she on?

"Was he high-functioning when he hallucinated a night of lovemaking with you and ended up in a psychiatric institution?"

Cuddy blanched.

"Objection!" McElroy yelled.

"Again, just establishing a pattern," Ross said.

"Sustained," the judge said. Then she shot Ross an admonishing glance. "That's a bit of a stretch, even for you."

Ross nodded curtly, danced a bit on the balls of his feet. He hadn't expected to get away with that one.

"Let me rephrase that: Was he high functioning the night he drove his car into your home?"

"Objection!" McElroy said, exasperated.

"Sustained," the judge said.

Ross made a face, like the judge was making him jump through hoops.

"Was House sober the night he drove through your home, Dr. Cuddy?"

There was a pause. No objections.

"Obviously not," Cuddy said.

"Would you characterize that as a violent act?"

"Aggressive maybe," Cuddy said. "Not necessarily violent."

"Aggressive . . . violent. We're splitting hairs."

"I don't think he intended to hurt anybody," Cuddy said.

"But he could have, right?"

Cuddy sighed.

"Yes, I suppose he could have," she said.

"Your daughter could've been in the house," Ross said.

"But she wasn't."

"But she might've been."

"House knew that she wasn't home."

"So he says," Ross said, skeptically. "Dr. Cuddy, how would you describe Gregory House's personality?"

"His personality?" Cuddy said, with a tiny smile. "He's. . . brilliant."

"We all know about House's genius IQ. Charles Manson also had a genius IQ, incidentally."

"Objection! Is he kidding with this?" McElroy blustered.

"I retract the statement. But I didn't ask about House's ability to do the New York Times crossword puzzle in ink. I asked about his personality. How would you describe it? Warm and fuzzy?"

"He's very . . . funny."

"Funny?" Ross snarled, like she had just said a dirty word.

"Yes…" Cuddy said.

"Would you say House is a nice guy?"

Cuddy continued to look at her hands.

"He could be. .. very nice."

"Let me rephrase that: Would _most people_ characterize House as a nice guy?"

Cuddy hesitated.

"No," she said. "I suppose not."

"Isn't it true that when House was a doctor at your hospital you received"—he looked down at his notes—"267 formal complaints about his behavior?"

"I don't have the number in front of me. . ."

"But that doesn't sound off base, does it?"

"No," she said. "It doesn't."

"I'm no expert, but 267 seems like an awful lot of complaints."

Cuddy was silent.

"What was the average number of complaints registered against doctors at Princeton Plainsboro?"

Cuddy pursed her lips.

"None," she said softly.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"None," Cuddy repeated.

"Hmmmm," Ross said, smiling a bit, holding out his hands like a scale. "None for most doctors. 267 for House. Why is that?"

"House's methods were unconventional. . ."

"He was a jerk, right?"

"But highly effective."

"Let me read from some of the complaints: 'He called me a moron.' 'He berated and belittled me at every juncture.' 'He never once came into my room.' 'He laughed at me.' 'He seemed to take pleasure in my weakness.' 'He made my mother cry.' . . . Does that sound like a nice guy to you?"

"House's methods were very results oriented," Cuddy said.

"In other words: He was a jerk."

"Sometimes, yes, but he was the best doct. . ."

"So let's go over your testimony, Dr. Cuddy. . ." Ross interrupted. "You say that Gregory House was an aggressive man, an addict, and a jerk. Is that accurate?"

"Those are your words, not mine," Cuddy said.

"Actually, I'm quoting things you just testified."

"I suppose that's one way of describing him. But there's so much more . . ."

"No further questions," Ross said.

And for the first time, Cuddy looked over at House.

He could swear he saw her mouth the words, "I'm sorry."


	2. Chapter 2

"_Wilson told me you called him. Very considerate of you, Cuddy. So I guess your phone is working after all . . .A toast, okay? To my best friend and my ex-girl. One's dying and the other one is not speaking to me. But hey, at least they're talking to each other. Ha, ha, ha. The universe sure loves a good joke. G'night Cuddy."_

McElroy got up, started to approach the witness stand.

"What are you doing?" House asked.

"The cross examination," McElroy said. "Surely you've watched enough legal dramas to know that's how it's done."

"I just…she already said what she has to say."

"Yeah, and now I have to prove the _reasonable doubt_ part."

He strode up to Cuddy.

"Dr. Cuddy, you have a daughter don't you?" he said.

"Yes, Rachel. She's almost 6," Cuddy said cautiously. She was already on alert.

"And how old was she when you dated Dr. House?"

"Ummm, she had her third birthday during the time we were together."

"I'm confused about the timing of all this," McElroy said, feigning innocence. "Were you not aware that Dr. House was a drug addict when you began seeing him?"

Cuddy scowled at him.

"He was clean at the time," she said. "He'd been sober for more than a year."

"But as an MD, surely you knew the odds of relapse were high."

"Not all addicts have relapses," Cuddy said.

"But many do. I guess you just figured, you were willing to take that chance on your daughter's safety."

Cuddy's mouth dropped open.

"Objection!" Ross shouted.

House stood up.

"Can I have a word with my counsel please?" he said, loudly.

McElroy walked over to him. Leaned toward him.

"What are you doing?" House hissed.

"I'm interrogating my witness."

"Ask her to say nice things about me. She's obviously willing to…"

"House, we're way beyond the point of having her say nice things about you. Her previous testimony was very damning. I need to discredit her as a reliable source completely."

"I won't allow it," House said, shaking his head.

"House, do you want to go back to jail?"

"I believe _duh_ is the appropriate response to that question."

"Then let me do my job. This is not a drill. This is your life we're dealing with here."

"Okay," House said, reluctantly. Then he pointed at him. "But don't cross a line."

"Never," McElroy said, reapproaching Cuddy with a little extra zip in his stride.

"Sorry about that. I was just trying to figure out why you would let this known addict into your child's life."

"He was clean!" she repeated.

"But surely there were other men who weren't recovering drug addicts. . ."

"I wasn't in love with other men. I was in love with him," Cuddy admitted.

At the defense table, House swallowed.

"Well, that always solves everything," McElroy said cheerfully.

"Objection!" Ross said.

"Sorry, your honor. Strike that." McElroy turned back to Cuddy. "Would you characterize your relationship with Dr. House as highly charged?"

"You could say that."

"Passionate?"

Cuddy smiled a bit.

"You could definitely say that."

"Dysfunctional?"

"Ummm, I wouldn't necessary go that far."

"He drove a car into your house."

"That was the breakup. Not the relationship itself."

"The nature of the breakup generally reflects the nature of the relationship," McElroy said.

"Objection!" Ross said. "Who is this guy? Yoda?"

"Sustained," the judge said.

McElroy raised his eyebrows.

"In Dr. House's last court appearance, your colleagues said this kind of highly charged behavior had been going on between the two of you for years. Is that true?"

Cuddy shrugged.

"A shrug isn't an answer, Dr. Cuddy."

"Then maybe you should ask better questions."

_Atta girl_, thought House.

"They said you used to have huge shouting matches in the hall."

"Sometimes."

"And that House was always testing you, to see how much he could get away with."

"That's true."

"They said he made inappropriate sexual remarks about you all the time."

"They were harmless."

"One colleague said"—he pulled out his notes—"the sexual tension between those two bordered on indecent."

Cuddy laughed.

"We flirted," she said.

McElroy stopped reading, put his notes down. "And that was _before_ you began dating. I can only imagine what it was like once you two actually started sleeping together."

"We did great," Cuddy said, glancing at House.

He gave her an encouraging half-smile.

"Oh yes, great relationships always end with attempted vehicular manslaughter."

"Objection!" Ross shouted. "What on earth does Dr. Cuddy's relationship with your client have to do with this trial?"

"I'm just trying to put Dr. Cuddy's earlier testimony in context."

The judge considered it.

"I'll allow it," she said. "But I need you to get to the point of this—quickly."

"Absolutely," McElroy said, bowing at her. "Dr. Cuddy, you strike me as an intelligent woman. A very accomplished woman. Obviously, a very beautiful woman."

"Objection!"

"Hey, I'm a lawyer. I'm not dead," McElroy quipped.

Laughter from the jury pool.

"It just seems to me," McElroy continued, "that you lose a bit of your sound judgment when you are around my client. Would you agree?"

"I'm sorry," she said, "Was that your idea of a question?"

House smirked.

"Would you go as far as to say that your relationship to Dr. House was addictive?"

"No, I would not," Cuddy said.

"Huh. My point here is—"

"Finally!" Ross said, sarcastically.

"My point here is—isn't it possible that you are in no position to rationally address House's state of mind, since the two of you had what the French call a _folie a deux—_that is to say, a shared madness?"

"Objection!" Ross said. "This showboating is getting tiresome."

"I retract that last statement," McElroy said, before the judge could sustain.

He turned to Cuddy again.

"Dr. Cuddy, as a mother, isn't it true that you are obligated to do what is in the best interest of your child?"

"Of course!"

"And was dating Dr. House in the best interest of your child?"

"Rachel loved him."

"Was he ever a jerk to her?"

"No…not that I can recall."

"_Never_?"

"I mean, maybe once or twice. House isn't very good at sugar-coating things."

"267 patient complaints would suggest that."

"I suppose so."

"And yet you were willing to bring this man we've established as a jerk and an addict, this man you had a highly charged _sexual addiction_ to into your child's life." He chuckled, derisively. "I guess you won't be winning any Mother of the Year awards."

"Objection!"

But it wasn't Ross shouting this time, it was House.

"Dr. House, you're not serving as counsel in this trial," the judge scolded. "You can't object."

"May I have a world with my lawyer again?" House said, through gritted teeth.

"Okay," the judge said. "But make it brief."

McElroy walked back over to the defense table, looking slightly annoyed.

"Tell her she can step off the witness stand," House said. "We're done here."

"I know this line of argument seems counterintuitive," McElroy said, "but trust me I know what I'm doing."

"I don't care. Cuddy is not on trial here. I am. Your questions are way out of line."

"If you don't let me finish interrogating her, every negative thing she said about you will stick."

"I can live with that."

McElroy glared at him, folded his arms. House glared back.

A mini standoff.

Finally, McElroy stepped back to his witness.

"No further questions," he said.

####

"_Something bad has happened. Something really, really bad. I can't say what. All I can say is, you may never hear from me again. I know…cause for celebration, right? But if anything should…happen to me, just know that I love you, okay? Always have. Always will. End of story. Good bye Cuddy." _

House got lucky.

The jury agreed that the charges against him were trumped up, especially once the very credible Dr. Eric Foreman insisted that _he _was the one who had flushed the tickets and clogged the hospital pipes, not House. They saw House's devotion to his dying best friend as noble, and a few of the female jury members were especially moved by his efforts to rescue his ex girlfriend from that bully on the witness stand.

They found him not guilty on 10 of the 12 charges leveled against him.

House was sentenced to 1 year in prison for parole violation. On good behavior, he could be out in 6 months.

He'd been at the Jersey State Penitentiary for a month, when he was told he had a visitor.

The last time he'd gotten his hopes up, his visitor had been Eric Foreman. So he managed his expectations.

But it was her.

She was sitting at the linoleum, cafeteria-style tables they had in the visitor's room, under the florescent lights.

He never wanted to see her in a place that was so cold, ugly, and institutional. He had a moment of shame that he was the one who had brought her here.

She looked nervous. She was actually biting her nails. But of course she looked gorgeous, too. She was the only woman he knew who could look beautiful in florescent light. She was wearing a blue sweater, a pair of jeans, not too much makeup. His Cuddy, the private one. Not the power bitch she showed to the world.

House, for his part, was dressed in that ugly, state-issued grey jumpsuit. But at least he wasn't in cuffs.

He rubbed his head. He had shaved his head closely when he first got to jail. It was just now beginning to grow back in idiosyncratic tufts.

"Hi," he said, sitting across from her. He could actually hear his own heart pounding in his chest.

"Hi," she said.

There was a long silence.

"You look pretty good, for a dead guy," she said with a smile, trying to break the ice.

"Thanks. And you look beautiful," House said. "As always."

She blushed a bit.

Then she said: "Don't ever put me through that again, House. You scared the shit out of me. I really thought you were dead."

_And yet you obviously weren't upset enough to come to my funeral_, he thought, but didn't say.

"Sorry," he said instead.

"How'd they even find out you were alive?" she said. "You covered your tracks pretty well."

"I did. Wilson didn't. He called his parents, assured them he was okay, but they worried anyway. Apparently, he came by his overbearing, fretful nature honestly. Anyway, they called the cops, who put a track on him. The cops kept hearing reports about two men. . .they eventually put two and two together. Figured it was me. Figured I'd show for my best friend's funeral. And they were right."

House shrugged.

"You probably should've stayed away," Cuddy said.

"I couldn't stay away," House said, giving her a meaningful look.

She knew what the look meant. Ignored it.

She sighed, swallowed.

"House, I wanted to apologize for what happened on the witness stand," she said. "I had no idea Ross was going to go for the jugular like that."

"No," House said. "You were great. You went to bat for me."

"I tried…he kept twisting everything I said."

"As lawyers do," House said.

"Yeah."

"Anyway, I'm the one who should apologize. McElroy was a jackass."

"That wasn't your fault," Cuddy said. "And besides, you . . .rescued me. . . .you were chivalrous."

House looked down.

"He's a real big shot in that courtroom. Let him spend five minutes alone with you on a neutral playing field. You'd crush him like the cockroach he is."

"I _was_ rather flustered," Cuddy admitted.

"You defended me," House said, looking at her.

"Always."

"_Why_ did you defend me?"

"You already know why."

"I need to hear you say it."

"Because I still care about you, you idiot. What did the drunk man once say? 'Always have. Always will.'"

House perked up.

"So you got my voicemails?"

"You mean your drunken soliloquies?" she said, a tiny smile playing at her lips. "Yeah, I got them."

Then her voice grew serious: "I must've listened to that last phone call a hundred times, House, trying to figure out if it was a suicide threat. Asking myself if I could've done something to prevent what happened. I obsessed over it."

"I didn't mean to burden you with that," House said sincerely. "I guess I just needed to say good bye."

"I saved that message, too. Actually, I saved all your messages."

"And yet you never called back."

"No."

"I figured when I told you that Wilson was dying you'd . . ."

"What?"

"Want to console me."

"I did want to console you, House. I did. I just wasn't ready."

"And then you didn't come to my funeral."

"I mourned for you. In my own way," she said. "Believe me, I mourned."

Another long silence.

"I miss you," House said, blinking at her.

She closed her eyes.

"I miss you, too," she whispered.

"So now what?"

"Now you serve out the rest of your sentence— safely."

"And then?"

"And then. . ." she looked at him. "We try to be friends. again"

"We don't do friends," House said. "You know it and I know it. Hell, even frickin' Gus McElroy knows it. What did he call it? _Folie a deux_?"

"That was _not_ a compliment," Cuddy said.

"I know. But it's true. It's us. Maybe it is a kind of madness. But it's a good kind of madness. Please let me come visit you and Rachel when I get outta here," he said. A tiny bit of desperation had crept into his voice.

She sighed.

"House. . ."

"Please tell me there's a chance I can be with you again…Please tell me there's a chance I can touch you again… Please tell me there's a chance I can make love to you again. . . _Please_, it's the only thing that'll keep me going in this miserable hellhole."

He reached out and took her hand. Much to his relief, she didn't pull away.

_Her tiny hand. In his. _

"House, I can't make any promises," she said.

"So there's a chance?" he said, staring into her eyes.

"Yes," she nodded. "A chance."

"A chance is all I need."

Just then, the guard came into the visiting room.

"Time's up, House," he said.

Cuddy reluctantly let go of House's hand.

They stared at each other.

"You gonna be okay?" she asked.

"You kidding me?" he said. "This is the happiest I've been in three years."

THE END


End file.
